“You don't need to work today,” another waiter said, passing by with a tray of drinks. “They've been very understanding about your situation.”
Matthew snorted. Understanding, right. That was because Francis had been quick to take advantage of their newfound connections. He had secured himself a job, as well as ensured Matthew would keep his even during this unpleasant time of family emergency, by implying that Ivan would be very unhappy otherwise. It was disgusting. “I'm fine.”
“You're not. You look terrible.”
“Seriously, I'm fine.”
The waiter sighed. “You've been walking around with those same steaks for a lot longer than necessary. What table are they going to?”
“Uh...”
“Go home.”
Matthew gave up. “Okay.”
So Matthew left work early and made his way home. He changed into more comfortable clothes, and turned the television on to keep himself company. He watched game shows until thirst sent him to the kitchen, and he stared into the fridge. Did he want beer or juice? Root beer or milk? He turned, eyeing the bottle of vodka Alfred had picked up in Moscow. That looked good. He turned back to the fridge, pondering, then swung it shut and marched over to the bottle. He would get lost in oblivion. Wake up feeling like shit, possibly in bed with a stranger, possibly tattooed or... Hey, he should get tattooed! Alfred had wanted Matthew to get a tattoo.
But before he could open it, a knock came at the door. Matthew swallowed thickly, afraid of what news was being brought to him. He set the vodka down and shuffled back to the living room as the knocking continued. Standing on the other side of the door was Ivan. Matthew's eyes narrowed, hand twitching with desire to just slam the door shut again.
His heart lurched at Ivan's grim expression. Not really a good sign.
“They found his body?” Matthew said dully.
Ivan's amethyst eyes flashed. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
Ivan held up an envelope with his name on it. “I received this today. I thought we might see what it says together.”
Matthew stared at the envelope, a gasp escaping. “Is that from...?” If it was, that meant Alfred was probably alive!
“I would assume so.” He stepped into the room, tearing the envelope open. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Matthew repeated, voice climbing an octave.
Ivan removed a familiar lock of hair, and Matthew dropped onto the couch, unable to tear his eyes away. “Oh...”
“It's okay,” Ivan said softly. “They could have lopped off something a lot worse.” He set the hair aside and tugged out the sheet of paper, eyes scanning its contents. Matthew watched him, on the verge of panic. He was just about to rip the note away to read it himself when Ivan heaved a sigh. “I knew it was them.”
“Who, dammit?”
“The mafia. The Italian mafia, that is.”
Matthew drew his knees up to his chest, stomach plummeting. “Fuck. What the hell do they want?”
“They want the Russian mafia to go away. Preferably to Russia. Except for me.” Ivan gave a humorless, chilling laugh. “They want me to turn myself in to them. To kill.”
“Oh god...”
“Within the week, or they'll kill him.”
“So it's you or him...”
“It seems that way.” Ivan settled onto the couch beside Matthew. “I will do whatever it takes to get him back. I will try and rescue him with nobody dying—except them if at all possible—but if I cannot, I will do what they say.”
“Ivan...” It was hard to hate somebody after they said something like that.
“Hopefully it won't come to that. I do have an idea.”
Matthew looked up sharply, breath catching. “You do?” He didn't dare hope.
Ivan nodded, crossing his arms. “I just happen to know somebody with a bit of an inside edge who owes me a favor.”
-----
“Let me go!” Alfred said the second the door swung open. Another day tied to a chair in the dark had done wonders for his pride. “What the hell is wrong with you? I don't have anything to do with your goddamn mob wars. Leave us alone!”
“I'm sorry!” the nicer Italian said, turning the light on and setting a plate of lasagna and bottle of water down.
Bratva 21a/??
Matthew snorted. Understanding, right. That was because Francis had been quick to take advantage of their newfound connections. He had secured himself a job, as well as ensured Matthew would keep his even during this unpleasant time of family emergency, by implying that Ivan would be very unhappy otherwise. It was disgusting. “I'm fine.”
“You're not. You look terrible.”
“Seriously, I'm fine.”
The waiter sighed. “You've been walking around with those same steaks for a lot longer than necessary. What table are they going to?”
“Uh...”
“Go home.”
Matthew gave up. “Okay.”
So Matthew left work early and made his way home. He changed into more comfortable clothes, and turned the television on to keep himself company. He watched game shows until thirst sent him to the kitchen, and he stared into the fridge. Did he want beer or juice? Root beer or milk? He turned, eyeing the bottle of vodka Alfred had picked up in Moscow. That looked good. He turned back to the fridge, pondering, then swung it shut and marched over to the bottle. He would get lost in oblivion. Wake up feeling like shit, possibly in bed with a stranger, possibly tattooed or... Hey, he should get tattooed! Alfred had wanted Matthew to get a tattoo.
But before he could open it, a knock came at the door. Matthew swallowed thickly, afraid of what news was being brought to him. He set the vodka down and shuffled back to the living room as the knocking continued. Standing on the other side of the door was Ivan. Matthew's eyes narrowed, hand twitching with desire to just slam the door shut again.
His heart lurched at Ivan's grim expression. Not really a good sign.
“They found his body?” Matthew said dully.
Ivan's amethyst eyes flashed. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
Ivan held up an envelope with his name on it. “I received this today. I thought we might see what it says together.”
Matthew stared at the envelope, a gasp escaping. “Is that from...?” If it was, that meant Alfred was probably alive!
“I would assume so.” He stepped into the room, tearing the envelope open. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Matthew repeated, voice climbing an octave.
Ivan removed a familiar lock of hair, and Matthew dropped onto the couch, unable to tear his eyes away. “Oh...”
“It's okay,” Ivan said softly. “They could have lopped off something a lot worse.” He set the hair aside and tugged out the sheet of paper, eyes scanning its contents. Matthew watched him, on the verge of panic. He was just about to rip the note away to read it himself when Ivan heaved a sigh. “I knew it was them.”
“Who, dammit?”
“The mafia. The Italian mafia, that is.”
Matthew drew his knees up to his chest, stomach plummeting. “Fuck. What the hell do they want?”
“They want the Russian mafia to go away. Preferably to Russia. Except for me.” Ivan gave a humorless, chilling laugh. “They want me to turn myself in to them. To kill.”
“Oh god...”
“Within the week, or they'll kill him.”
“So it's you or him...”
“It seems that way.” Ivan settled onto the couch beside Matthew. “I will do whatever it takes to get him back. I will try and rescue him with nobody dying—except them if at all possible—but if I cannot, I will do what they say.”
“Ivan...” It was hard to hate somebody after they said something like that.
“Hopefully it won't come to that. I do have an idea.”
Matthew looked up sharply, breath catching. “You do?” He didn't dare hope.
Ivan nodded, crossing his arms. “I just happen to know somebody with a bit of an inside edge who owes me a favor.”
-----
“Let me go!” Alfred said the second the door swung open. Another day tied to a chair in the dark had done wonders for his pride. “What the hell is wrong with you? I don't have anything to do with your goddamn mob wars. Leave us alone!”
“I'm sorry!” the nicer Italian said, turning the light on and setting a plate of lasagna and bottle of water down.